It would be actually pretty funny translated to like a Kroger or Ralph’s or something. The cashier would have to be all ‘I’ve smoked those camels since I was twelve’, ‘I always buy brownie mix, bacon, and a fifth of Jameson on Tuesday at midnight with my cigarettes’.

I did not know that a D.A.R.E. choir existed, but I did get a special certificate at the school awards night for being, like, the best at D.A.R.E. in my class or something.

When I was in 6th grade, our school banned shorts for some reason. I got so mad I started to campaign to bring them back.

I sang in the D.A.R.E. choir.

oh god, wait, it’s all coming back. What a contrarian little piece of shit I was.

I push it over and over, with the assumption that if the machine thinks a lot of us are waiting and not just me it will change faster.

It’s so sad the way we vilify those with infectious diseases. I recently had active tuberculosis and had to have an entire contact investigation done (including everyone I’d spent three hours w/ in the past year—at work, bars I went to, etc.). That sucked. And it sucked worse when I realized I’d infected people…

it’s just a picture of legs that cuts to an image of a man standing in a burning house and he has a goat head and his eyes are the black of the void and then it cuts back to an image of legs with paint on them and then it’s the goat headed man and he’s closer to the foreground and I can smell sulfur and then it cuts…

Also there’s a dozen paint markers in the photo.

Yeah, the brain can play tricks on you for sure. It does look oily at first, but if you look hard at all the white streaks on the legs you’ll see that it is just paint after a few seconds.

Live in Chicago and from Michigan - sweatshirts are NOT sweaters. Maybe it’s a Minnesota thing.